


the only truth I know is you

by scriptmanip



Series: Resting on Your Laurels [6]
Category: Skins (UK)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-03 23:10:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scriptmanip/pseuds/scriptmanip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But then, Emily leans forward for her drink and places a hand on your knee with so much familiarity, you have to work hard at remembering how it is that anything else matters at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the only truth I know is you

 

__  
The wilderness between the bite marks and scratches  
_Didn’t we fit together like somebody else’s sweater_  
_Cut the connection, just to stitch it together again, again, again_

* * *

__  
_ _

_Emily, in the aftermath of Manchester_

“They’ll kick you out, Em.”

It’s not unkind, her tone, and it’s something you’re still getting used to – this version of Katie that can be firm without shouting. That can be caring without also trying to control your entire life.

And, she’s right. You’ve not just stopped doing the coursework, you’ve stopped showing up entirely. Anything that exists outside the four walls of your bedroom seeming impossibly daunting, university included. She’s sat near the foot of your bed, and you can smell coffee drifting into the room through the open door. But your back is turned on your sister, and the scent, and the flat, and life in general.

For the first few weeks, she’s softer and gentler than you’ve ever seen her, coming in to coax you from the room occasionally, though with little success.

But then, she’s still Katie.

So in the midst of your third bleak and sullen weekend, her tactics have shifted, and she’s throwing back the blankets and pulling up the shutters, with little-to-no delicacy.

“It smells like sweat and spliff in here, and I didn’t fucking move to Manchester to live with someone who has less personal hygiene than James Cook.”

Dejectedly, you manage to say, _‘fuck off’_ into your pillow. And it’s almost alarming, the sound of your voice, for how long it’s been since you used it. You grab for the blankets again, but Katie’s quicker and rips them off the bed entirely.

“I’m not sitting by and letting you ruin your fucking life over this, Emily.” She’s bundled all the bedding in her arms and is stood by the door, determination screaming from her face when you roll over to face her. “I know I sound like a complete arsehole, but—“ and her face breaks when she pauses, just enough so that her tone is less affronting when she finishes “—I mean, you ended it. You told her to fuck off, yeah?”

You’ve been propped on your elbows, staring angrily while Katie goes about dismantling your cave of self-loathing. And you’d rather stay angry because at least it feels like something productive. That emotion, at the very least, is enough to boil your blood or tense your jaw. And feeling something, _anything_ , is better than the emptiness that’s held you hostage for weeks. The way your body’s been brutally hollowed out, left a sagging carcass of skin and bone, in the absence of Naomi. But you can’t hold onto it, the anger, and start to cry instead because you did end it. And you did tell her to go. But that’s hardly the point anymore, is it?

Katie moves back into the room with a huff, dropping the bundled laundry at her feet and sitting on the bed. You don’t turn away this time but into her, resting your head on her knees while she brushes hair from your face.

“Christ, Emily.” She sounds so helpless when she says it, you can’t help but wonder how you’re expected to survive any of this if even Katie’s lost hope.

After some time, the tears stop, and you’ve started to think the ducts will stop working eventually. That one day you’ll just dry up entirely. And won’t that be a fucking relief.

“What am I supposed to do, Katie?” you croak out, your mouth moving against the cotton of her leggings.

She sort of half-laughs as her hand comes to rest on your side. “Honestly? At this point, I’d be happy if you just showered and, like, changed your underwear regularly.”

**

The shower doesn’t exactly help since there’s still remnants of her everywhere – the soaps she liked that you still use, the coconut shampoo that she insisted reminded her of the Caribbean even though you never once had tropical drinks from hollowed coconut shells or anything. The tiling surrounding you that you could swear still bears her imprints. Lathering your arms and legs feels like covering yourself with Naomi all over again.

 _She’d have dumped them into the drain by now_ , you think.

All the memories, all the things infused with you – the stupid shower products, or the items of clothing that no longer belong to you or to her but feel like something shared – she’d not hold onto them. But then, she’s not ever been some bleeding-heart romantic who associates pain and suffering with love. Who thinks the harsher the burn, or the deeper the cut, the truer the feeling.

 _She’s too logical for all that nonsense_ , you think. And then have to swallow hard to keep from crying again when you imagine all the parts of you she’s already discarded.  

**

Chelsea and Anna recruit all of your friends to help them pack up their flat, disguising the ploy for free labour as a farewell party, since they leave for Portugal the following Monday. You’ve attended all your classes for a solid week, begged your way back into a few, and have spent almost all your free time at the library, buried under stacks of books and papers. You’ve even stopped smoking spliff [mostly].

“You’re fucking coming, Emily. They’re some of your best mates, and they’re, like, _leaving_ the country.”

Katie’s getting dressed into clothes you’re fairly certain belong to you, and you have to think hard to remember the last time you saw her in animal print or fishnet stockings. You’re trying to bunk off the party since you’ve had a mostly drama-free week. So to end it by spending a long evening inside a flat where your ex-girlfriend has lived for months seems counterintuitive to that kind of productivity.

“I’ll have lunch with them or something, alright?” You’re sat on Katie’s bed, picking at the varnish on your nails. “I just don’t think I can do it – I can’t be in that space.”

Katie doesn’t turn to face you, just says evenly, “She’s not going to be there.”

It doesn’t matter. Naomi’s still _everywhere_ , even when she’s not around.

“Am I complete dick if I don’t go?” You lean back into the mattress, holding your weight with the palms of your hands.

Katie eyes you through the reflection in the mirror, and then turns to face you with a contrite smile. “You’ve sort of been a dick for the past two months, Em. I don’t think you _not_ showing up will be much of a surprise at this point.”

Your sister used to say the most horrible things. She used to cut quick and deep, her words often leaving you staggering from their infliction. She used to scream and shout, really rough you up back when you were still as flimsy as a tea towel. But somehow, the kinder her tone now, the more it stings.

“Right,” you sigh. And then nod a few times to convince yourself. “Right.”

**

If you’d have known it’d be your last conversation, you’d probably have tried for a bit more levity.

But there’s never been predictability between you and Naomi, no script to guide you through stolen kisses, cat flaps, broken hearts. And you’ve always kind of been okay with that: the unknown.  It’s never affected you the way Naomi had been so frequently thwarted by it in the beginning. It isn’t even that you’ve always been more sure than she has, because you know now that it was never the uncertainties that kept her at bay. Truthfully, it was probably your _not_ knowing, your _not_ grasping the gravity of you and her, that allowed you to follow so effortlessly. That made it easy to want, and to love, and to declare so openly.

And you’ve not learnt a thing, apparently. Because you’re still laying it all out in desperation. And you still don’t know a fucking thing.

“Emily, you’ve got to calm down. You’re – you’re scaring me.”

Naomi sounds too calm, too rational. It only sends you into further hysterics.

“I can’t – I can’t fucking calm down! You fucking – you’ve just fucking _gone_ , and you won’t tell me where, Naomi. How am I supposed to stay fucking calm?”

It’s not raining now, but it has been for days, leaving everything chilled and soggy. There are leaves under your feet, squishing and sliding with every step as you pace outside Chelsea and Anna’s flat. It had taken at least seven tries, maybe more, to get Naomi on the line, and you honestly can’t decide what’s worse – the endless ringing of an unanswered call or the sound of her voice.

“I couldn’t stay there. And you told me—“

“I _know_ what I fucking told you. _Jesus_ , why does everyone feel the need to keep bloody reminding me like I could somehow forget?”

She sighs, and it sounds loud in your ear, over the noise of passing cars.

“It was too hard, Emily. It was just—“

Her voice is less stable then, and you cling to it, that emotion. You press the phone closer to your ear and shut your eyes.

“I need a different space right now, okay? Everything is total shit, and Manchester is always going to mean _you_. I can’t just be there without being—“

She sniffs, and you fall against the wall behind you. The brick of the building is damp and scratches the small of your back where your top’s ridden up.

“It just wasn’t working, my being there,” she continues in your silence. “I think I need – I need a change, you know?”

The air is cold and dense with moisture, causing shivers to ripple through your arms and shoulders. Katie hasn’t found you yet, but she soon will. She’s been clocking you the entire evening as you’d distractedly folded up boxes and attempted genuine smiles when Anna made jokes or Chelsea brought you drinks.

The news didn’t come from either of them, nor from your sister, as it probably should have. It came instead in passing – some peripheral conversation floating around the flat about _‘that girl from the arts shop that skipped town and left a note.’_

You’re momentarily distracted by that realisation, that they all knew for god knows how long, and kept it from you. _‘For your own good,’_ they would say. But there isn’t anything good left, you think. Not for you.

“Em?” she calls you back to the moment, and your skin feels like it’s splitting open in several places.

“Yeah.”

“I’m—“

“ _Please_. Don’t say you’re sorry. I can’t hear it.” You take a few shuddering breaths, bite cruelly onto your bottom lip until you think you’ve drawn blood. “Why didn’t you – I mean, fuck’s sake, you didn’t even say goodbye, Naomi.”

She’s quiet for long seconds, even her breaths [assuming she’s not holding them] are unheard. But then she clears her throat and speaks with a little more resolve. “I didn’t want to do that.” You’re poised to argue until she says, “I don’t know that I’ll ever really be able to.”

**

The fact that she’s got sandy blonde hair and hazel eyes with a definite air of intrigue, immediately pales in comparison to the eloquence with which she speaks on Angela Carter. And postgrad is nothing like university lectures in that you’re not in some grand hall but sat around a small circle with fifteen others while she floats about at the centre of everything. You’d be scratching out notes or scanning the text if you weren’t totally captivated by her every movement. Not wanting to miss a single expression. Memorising the way her mouth makes shapes out of words like _shadow_ , _magic_ , and _villains_.

It’s not the first time in recent years you’ve felt that familiar swirl of arousal, of instant attraction, but it _is_ the first time it’s not also been coupled with guilt.

 _An improvement_ , you think a bit ruefully, _that’s taken only eighteen months_.

Rosalind is striking in that she seems out-of-place in academia, far too beautiful to also be clever, to also be so passionate about prose and syntax. So it’s not long before you’re completely infatuated, thinking incredibly inappropriate things in the middle of lessons that result in you crossing your legs to dull the throbbing between them.

Katie calls once a week now, like clockwork. Always from some faraway country, in some city or small village that you’d never be able to place on a map, and even her voice sounds distant. But she’s found something she loves, something at which she excels. And it shouldn't be ironic, that she's turned into some selfless humanitarian. Because there was always a side to your sister privy only to you,  a girl that the others never really knew. But the irony is still there, making you smile. And you know that Katie’s more surprised by it than any of you, since she’s gone practically her whole life pretending to be fabulous while telling herself she’s rubbish at everything.

“Your professor, Emily? Really?” Her laughter does little to mask the warning in her voice.

“It’s just tea, Katie. And we’re discussing my final project so it’s not any different than meeting in her office, is it?”

“Who are you trying to convince exactly – me or you?”

“I’m not jeopardising anything, okay? I’m just – curious.” You flip a pen through your fingers, quickly weaving it back and forth like a nervous habit. It’s the effect Rosalind has on you – some sparked energy of anticipation – this professor with an easy confidence and reserved smile.

 “If you say so,” Katie sighs, and then moves topics, insisting for the hundredth time that she’s fallen in love ‘ _for real this time.’_

His name is Nanak. He was born with a collapsed lung and cleft palette, but the brightest eyes she’s ever seen. And, she won’t leave Nepal until the adoption papers are signed, and he’s officially hers for keeps.

And you can only smile, indulging her persistence with a grain of salt. Because your sister falls in love more now than ever before. Because in every village, there’s a child to whom she’ll cling, and she’ll nurture, and she’ll swear to love exclusively. But then she’s needed elsewhere, her work never settling for long, always moving. And she’ll care for other children, she’ll experience the births of a hundred more. She’ll fall in love again, and again, and again.

Katie won’t ever have children. She’s broken that way, the doctors had told her all those years ago. She can’t carry them around in her uterus the way she’d expected.  Your smile continues to broaden as Katie blathers on, and you think, yeah, Katie won’t ever have one child or two or three, she’ll have them all – all the ones left unwanted, uncared for, most needing of love. She’ll look her biological deficiencies square on and give them the fucking finger.

**

When Rosalind insists you call her _‘Rose’_ she does so with a hand placed lightly to your leg, just above the knee. When she rings you to say she’s running late for coffee, or for tea, or for meetings in the garden outside her office, you close your eyes at the sound of her voice as she says your name. At the slow cadence of it when she says, _‘Emily.’_

When she kisses you that first time – and you’re sure that it happens this way, that _she_ kisses _you_ because you don’t take chances anymore on girls, on _women_ , who you think might fancy you – it’s very soft and slow. She doesn’t rush a thing, just sort of settles there in front of you and moves her mouth against yours in a kind of lovely way that relaxes you completely.

You go down on her the day before your last class, having resisted a thousand urges to do so earlier in your forbidden tryst, and then studiously avoid eye contact with her the entire lesson. Because you can’t watch her speak about Blake’s _‘enlightened sexuality’_ without remembering the way her face had creased at climax.

**

Katie comes home, and not just to London [where you’ve been since leaving Manchester] but to Bristol, where you’ve all gathered for Easter. She hasn’t made it home for Christmas in over two years, and your mum’s been smothering her so incessantly, you briefly consider barricading yourselves in your old bedroom just to get some alone time. But then Katie rolls her eyes at your suggestion, nicking two bottles of your mum’s champagne, and hauls you out the back door of the house towards the park where you’d learnt to smoke your first fag.

You find the swings empty and settle there, rocking gently back-and-forth out of sync. Katie takes a long pull off one of the bottles, the other wedged between your knees and half-empty, and smiles over at you.

“Ever think you’d be nailing an older woman then?”

“Shut up.” You can’t help from smiling at the dig, and Katie only laughs harder.

“Do I even need to ask whether or not you got high marks in that particular subject?”

“Shut _up_.”

You’re pushing against her shoulder, laughing with her, and then she just sways from side-to-side as your laughter dies out. You take a large mouthful of champagne, and a thousand tiny bubbles feel like soft pin pricks against your throat and tongue. “I think you’ll like her.”

“It’s going well then?” Katie asks more genuinely, and you think you’ve survived the worst of her taunting for now.

“Yeah,” you nod, tipping your toes into the dirt floor. “Yeah, it is.”

Once you’ve drained both bottles, you and Katie seem to find nearly _everything_ hilarious as you’re laid flat on your backs on a roundabout. All the bright paint’s been chipped away and the cold metal is probably filthy, but you find an ancient rebellion to turn back up in Jenna’s kitchen in dirt-stained clothes just to watch her lose it.

It’s good you’ve stopped spinning round on the thing because it’s difficult enough watching the clouds shift above you, and if the tree tops were also in rotation you’d have to close your eyes to keep from feeling sick.

“I still think about her, you know.”

Katie is laid out to your left at an angle where you can see only the lower half of her, the top of her head nearly touching yours, so that you can’t see her reaction.

You don’t ever talk about her to anyone, not even Katie. But then, maybe it’s being in Bristol. Maybe it’s getting half-cocked on champagne before sunset. Maybe it’s this. Maybe it’s that. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

It’s always an odd kind of remembrance.

Like spilling too much malted vinegar on your chips, and imagining how she’d laugh at your scowl before kissing your forehead and getting back in queue for a fresh basket.

Like shopping with Rose and seeing a shock of blonde weaving through the rails of dresses before reminding yourself that Naomi would never, _ever_ be caught in Top Shop.

Like waking with a hand on your hip, and for fleeting seconds expecting it to be hers.

“I’m happy with Rose,” you then say. “I think I love her, actually. But sometimes I just – I still think about her.”

You can’t remember the last time your sister was ever this quiet, and you almost sit up then to check that she’s not fallen asleep. But then she sighs, reaches out and takes a few of your fingers in her hand. When she squeezes just once, it feels like the answer to a question you’ve not dared ask.

**

_Naomi, presently_

“Does this mean we’re on speaking terms again?” Effy’s voice is so smug, the self-satisfaction is practically saturating your ear through the mobile speaker.

“You’re awfully up yourself for someone who’s just played puppeteer with her best friend’s life without consent.”

“Isn’t that the point – for tiny, wooden marionettes to dance about against their will?”

Tiredly, you tell her, “Stop fucking playing games, Effy.”

“You’re the one who started speaking in metaphor, _Naomi_.”

“I needed you this weekend, you know.”

“Bollocks,” she scoffs.

“I fucking _did_!” Your heckles spring up instantly, because the way Effy’s confidence has always given her reign over other people’s lives has never _not_ annoyed the shit out of you. “What – I’m now incapable of determining my own _needs_?”

She almost laughs. Her tone, anyway, sounds humoured. “Is this really news to you?”

You’ve collapsed onto the sofa, and though it’s still a pretty rubbish piece of furniture, a quick survey down its length instantly resurfaces visions of Emily, which will now always make it a bit less shit. Not that Effy deserves to know that having Emily in New York has made anything better. Not that Effy deserves to know anything from you ever again, thanks very much.

“Naomi.”

“ _What_?” you snap, sounding spectacularly adolescent: defensive and tetchy.

It’s the tone you’d taken with your mum for all those years, reflexively. Like she were the worst kind of parent for empathising things like your heartbreak when she couldn’t even bloody remember to buy groceries.

Except it’s Effy on the line and not your mum, so she sighs impatiently and says, “Whatever. Ring me back when you’ve gotten the fuck over it.” And the line goes dead.

Turns out you’re fairly incapable of holding onto grudges these days. And within the hour, you’ve got Effy’s light laughter cracking through your mobile speaker as she tells you, “Christ, you’ve gone soft, Campbell.”

Because your voice had gone a bit shaky while apologising to her for overreacting, and Effy’s apparently not above making you feel like an even bigger twat for getting so upset in the first place.

So you rebound by telling her, “You do know that it takes, like, a concerted effort to stay friends with you, right?”

Effy laughs with more sincerity before snapping her lighter twice, a satisfied inhale making its way through the line and the slow push of smoke sounding across the receiver. It sounds to you like resolution, and you relax in an instant.

**

Before you leave for London – and you’re still a bit in denial that you’re _actually_ going back – you meet with Richard. He looks at you sort of curiously once you’ve pitched it, but he’s always been rather ambivalent in regards to your career path, and shrugs in consent without much questioning. He then rambles on about his holiday plans until you have to stop him with an apology for your own short schedule. Your flight’s not for hours, but leaving enough time for one or two drinks pre-flight isn’t the worst idea you’ve had in so many days.  

He folds your proposal in half, stuffs it into his jacket pocket. “Well, have a good Christmas – we can settle the details on this when you get back.”

“Thanks,” you tell him, leaning in awkwardly when he motions to hug you across a tiny café table.

**

“Are you going to see her?”

Effy’s flat feels different this time around. In that you’re significantly more sober, yes. But there’s also a kind of comfort in having arrived in London only to hide away at the top of a tall building.

It’s not as if you’re not itching to see Emily, but the relief is that it’ll be in your own time. There will be no spontaneous appearances in coffee shops, or art galleries, or hotel rooms. And it must be plastered across your face – that ease, that absence of worry – if Effy’s chosen to bring it up. The way she’s always waited for an unsuspecting reprieve to say things such as this.

You love Effy, but you could also _murder_ her for how she’s still able to manipulate your mood with six words.

“I haven’t decided.”

You’re sat on her bed, in your pyjamas and drinking wine, with a view of the city that feels like a slap in the face to your own flat back home. Effy joins you with a fresh bottle and raises an eyebrow.

“What is this then – payback for her actions in University?”

“No, of course not,” you say quickly, drinking rapidly and nearly choking. When you recover, you remind her, “I’d like to think we’ve moved past all of that.”

“Have you?” Effy watches you, even as she fills a glass with wine.

“Probably not entirely,” you sigh. “But, it’s still got nothing to do with my decision to see her or not.”

“Well then?”

“Can’t I just be _indecisive_?”

“Nasty, little habit of yours.” Effy winks as she plops onto the bed and lights a cigarette.

**

In the morning, the flat is empty, but Effy’s left a note on the breakfast bar. Only after you’ve reached for it do you realise it was placed purposefully between an orange and a banana because it reads:

_Feel up to making any decisions today? Start small. Breakfast xx_

You crawl back into her bed after chopping up the orange _and_ the banana into a bowl [because fuck Effy], and fiddle your mobile in-between bites of fruit.

It’s Christmas Eve in London, but you’re not sure what day it is in New Delhi, nor if your mum’s got a phone with her because, as per, she’d been scarce on the details. You exhale then, through your nose, and rest your head against the pillows because with Effy gone and your mum off meditating, there’s only one person left to contend for your time. And, if the way your fingers twitch with an urge to dial her, it’s probably a good indication she’d been at the top of that list anyway.

It’s just barely gone eight, and you’ve admittedly already ignored a text from her, so naturally, Emily picks up on the first ring.

And then you don’t have to weigh the decision any longer – the sound of her voice makes it easy. Emily makes all your useless hesitations irrelevant. Because as soon as she’s suggested you come round for a video marathon of old, Christmas favourites, you’re not just answering _‘Yeah, alright,’_ you’re saying it with an irrepressible smile as a pleasant warmth of nostalgia settles in your stomach.

You start to remember things about Christmases in Bristol, a flooding of memories you’ve not accessed in so long you almost question their authenticity.

**

_a Christmas in Bristol_

James Fitch loves lesbians. In particular, he loves _you_. And while his routine about shagging or, at the very least, copping a feel to your tits, is getting tired, you’ve always sort of humoured his pathetic advances. Jenna, Katie, Rob, and _Emily_ , specifically, do not.

For the first two years of your relationship, Emily tries to coerce you into Fitch festivities, failing miserably. But, after three months in London without her, you’re practically crawling through catflaps to be with her – Jenna Fitch and her contemptuous scowling be damned.

And if James’ chat-up lines had been comical before, they’re bloody _hilarious_ on Christmas Eve when he’s squeezed himself into an old nightdress of Katie’s. You’re pretty sure he’s done it for a laugh because he’s not nine anymore and must understand, to a degree, that cross-dressing boys does not a lesbian make. He’s certainly old enough to realise at least _some_ of the inner workings of sexuality because his voice is threatening to drop at any moment and cracks horribly when he says your name. And even though James’ face goes up in flames at the sound, Emily’s hardly deterred by any sympathy for her little brother, and kicks him mercilessly until he runs upstairs. Your heart goes out to him a bit, the little pervert, as you watch him retreat up the staircase.  

You’re still stood at the front door, where James had discovered you upon opening it with an, _‘Oh shit – you actually turned up!’_

Emily returns her attention to you, a little out of breath and a great deal flushed, and you immediately wish you didn’t always have to associate those two things with her also being _naked_ because Jenna appears in the doorway of the kitchen seconds later.

“Emily, what’s with all the bloody yelling – oh. Naomi, hello.”

She’s at least able to stomach salutations at this point, though the tight smile stretching Jenna’s features looks incredibly painful.

“Hello, Jenna. Happy Christmas. Here, um my uh, mum offers her holiday cheer,” you say, fumbling to hand over the bottle of wine Gina had forced on you.

Then, at the very least, Jenna _looks_ as uncomfortable as you feel. _Small victories_ , you think, cutting your eyes back to Emily, who looks equal parts impressed and amused.  

“Come on,” Emily says while Jenna tries to work up a quiet _‘thank you.’_ Emily hauls you into the sitting room just as you’ve kicked off your boots, and says, “You’ve got a present to open.”

Katie looks up when you enter, her face softly lit from the glow of the television.

“Hey,” you say sitting down beside her, a bowl of popcorn between you. “Mind if I—“ Your hand hovers above the bowl, and Katie rolls her eyes.

“Whatever.”

It wouldn’t feel right if Katie treated you nicely, or even _nicer_ , just because of reindeers and starry nights. It’d be unpleasant, probably, to have her spreading any Christmas cheer. And the last thing you need is anything else to make you feel awkward on an already uncomfortable evening. Besides, you can’t really blame her, considering Jenna’s unwelcoming attitude towards you setting the bar. A fish rots from the head, or something like that, a saying your mum often throws around when belittling the British government.

When Emily’s fetched your present, you finally notice with a laugh, “Hold on, are you two wearing matching pyjamas?”

Katie studiously ignores you, her attention still rapt with what looks like _It’s a Wonderful Life_ , while Emily just plops down at your side and tugs urgently at the wrapping of your gift.

You raise an eyebrow at her, but she only shakes her head and shrugs. “What? They’re not _matching_. Mine are green.”

So you just laugh, looking down to your lap. “Ems, I didn’t bring yours. I thought we were doing presents tomorrow.”

“This one’s not from me. See?” And she points at the tag which reads _in her handwriting_ , that it’s from Father Christmas.  

“You’re so retarded,” Katie says, not bothering to take her eyes off the telly, her inflection incredibly bored like she’s channelled Effy Stonem.

“Fuck off, Scrooge,” Emily says happily, leaning across your lap for a handful of popcorn. Then, before funnelling it into her mouth, urges, “Go on.”

You carefully tear back the wrapping to find your very own pair of pyjamas [yellow, as opposed to Katie’s purple or Emily’s green], and Emily appears delighted beyond belief at your sort of muted, _‘Oh, god,’_ while Katie remains annoyed as ever.  

“Come on then, let’s get you into them before we start the next video.”

Emily’s already pulling you off the couch with so much genuine enthusiasm, you start to seriously reconsider whether you’ve made the right decision in coming by, bending to her insistent pleading. Because wine and spliff with your mum has really always been enough holiday fanfare for your tastes.

When Jenna appears near the foot of the stairs, you and Emily pausing abruptly about midway up, you’re almost certain you should have stayed home.

Because she says, “Emily, I don’t think it’s a good idea – I mean, I don’t know how I feel about the two of you up there, _alone_.”

You freeze, afraid to look behind you. Terrified to meet those narrowed, judging eyes and her mouth, a thin, threatening line.

Though Emily, apparently unimpressed, answers, “Relax, mum. You do realise I’ve seen tits before, yeah? Got a pair of my own even, haven’t I?”

You do turn then – at least your head does – because there’s a distinct sound of flustered stuttering, and you can’t imagine anything better than seeing Jenna Fitch left speechless on Christmas Eve in her own house.

But Emily’s already pushing at your back, so you scurry up the remaining steps and down the hall towards her room until you’re securely latched inside. At which point, you push her against the closed door and kiss her like you can’t stand the idea of your mouth doing anything other than this, ever again.

**

_a Christmas in London, presently_

Katie answers the door and then quickly says, “Don’t worry, I’m on my way out,” smiling, hugging you into the flat, and closing the door at your back.

“Oh, I wasn’t – I mean, I didn’t—“

“I mean, Merry Christmas and all, but like, I’ve lived with the pair of you and played first-party witness to your reunions post separation so, yeah, no thanks.” She says it with a smile, all while removing your coat, and you’re just stood there helplessly, your arms stiff and your face burning.

“Katie, it’s not like—“

“Ems is on the phone – said she’ll be off in a mo. Wine?”

You swallow hard, eyes still blinking like you’ve been stunned. “ _Loads_.”

Katie just laughs and turns away down the corridor, and you follow her because even if Emily doesn’t surface sometime soon to rescue you from her sister’s commentary, at the very least there’s the promise of alcohol.

But Emily finds you just as Katie’s poured the wine, and every part of you that thought it didn’t matter whether or not Katie fucked off for the night changes in that instant.

“Hi,” Emily beams.

She’s not close enough to be touching, and it’s probably a good thing because your palms have already begun to perspire.

“Hi.”

Emily takes a step closer, has to raise up on her toes and hold to your arm in order to kiss your cheek, and your heart is pumping so wildly it nearly drowns out the sound of Katie’s disgust.

“Right, as I was fucking saying – _revolting_.”

You laugh a little while Emily watches you and slides her hand down your arm until her fingers find your own. And, sweaty or not, she looks relieved to have found them.

“Sorry about that,” she says, ignoring Katie with some well-practiced disinterest and waving her mobile with her other hand.

“It’s fine.” You reach out for the wine glass on the table, tipping it in Katie’s direction. “Your sister’s an exceptionally gracious host.”

“Gracious _and_ short-lived,” Katie says, slipping into a jacket that’d been hung on one of Emily’s kitchen chairs. “I’ll see you later tonight.” Katie comes around to kiss Emily’s cheek then looks at the both of you with some mild, and yet familiar, disdain. “Try to be clothed when I return, yeah?”

“ _Katie_ ,” Emily says, her eyes closed tight.

“Just saying – wouldn’t be the first time.”

**

Emily’s turned on _Wallace & Gromit_, and it’s not even a Christmas film but somewhat of a Fitch tradition nevertheless. You think it’s ‘The Wrong Trousers,’ though it’s hard to say because you’ve not been paying it much attention what with Emily sat so closely without touching you at all. Your first glass of wine still sits, unfinished, on the coffee table in front of you along with mugs of hot chocolate and a tray of Walker’s shortbreads.

Things had started pleasantly enough, what with the way Emily took your hand and the warmth of her lips, gentle against your face. But you’ve never been particularly coordinated when it comes to her, and thus stumbled rather quickly into unsteady conversation about Lewis. And about Rose.

They’ve been splitting their time with him, week by week, and this much you knew. They’ve also decided that Christmas, in particular one’s _first_ Christmas, shouldn’t be broken apart between two mums, but something whole, something done together. Something familial and stable, if not held together with false pretence. Meaning they plan to celebrate in Bristol, Fitches and Graftons, as a united front. And this much, you did _not_ know.

Emily tries to right it again – with sweet liqueurs and biscuits – but the mood’s been well shattered, your mind adrift with things that make you long for New York. Or New Delhi. You’d even settle for Effy’s flat – even though the distance doesn’t seem great enough – since it’s at least not _here,_ a space that suddenly feels so foreign and uninviting when considering everything in it that doesn’t belong to you. But then, Emily leans forward for her drink and places a hand on your knee with so much familiarity, you have to work hard at remembering how it is that anything else matters _at all_.    

She chokes lightly after taking  a sip, and then laughs while still trying to swallow, but when you sit up to rub her back she’s already worked it down and is saying, “The Bailey’s to cocoa ratio is possibly a bit … _off_.”

Emily clears her throat and looks over at you, smiling like she wants it to be okay again. Asking with her eyes, in a way that tugs something loose in your chest, unravelling what you’ve kept bound for so long. And you smile in return, leaving your hand where it rests along her back, because it is. You don’t know why it’s okay, but it just is.

The rest of the video is far more enjoyable because you’ve had your own mug of boozy hot chocolate, and Emily’s found her way into a crook at your side, snuggled in close. You keep getting whiffs of her washing powder – the same goddamn scent she’s used since college – that’s meant to smell of a summer’s day or fresh wild flowers, but to you just smells like Emily.

You’ve been lulled into a false sense of contentment what with the fairy lights hung about, the way Emily’s been curled into you, the extra sweets, and the return of an old tradition you thought you’d lost. So when Emily says your name, quietly against your chest, you can’t even register the apprehension in her voice.

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Can’t imagine I’d be able to stop you,” you tease, pinching lightly the exposed skin of Emily’s side where your hand’s been resting.

“It’s – it’s about Lewis.” She shifts then, comes around to a sitting position, so that she can see you face-to-face.

There’s a sick feeling in your gut that you first attribute to the combination of wine, cocoa, and too many biscuits. Alternately, it could be the anxious way Emily’s eyes flit from your own to her hands and back.

After a deep breath you say, “Alright.”

“I know we’ve not really settled anything as of yet, but it’s just that I sort of need to know. I mean, you can’t very well be with me without being with me _and_ him. So,” she folds and unfolds her hands, sets them onto your thigh then takes them back.

“So, what are you asking me?”

“Is he – is Lewis ever something you could want?”

So much has changed, and so much has stayed exactly the same. The fact that you’re back to this – the fact that it’s no longer some hypothetical but extremely, fucking relevant – feels horribly unfair. Because you’re still unsure on which end of the spectrum that answer lies.

You’d like to tell her without pause that yes, of course he is. You’d like to tell her that your biological clock started ticking the very instant you saw him, and that you’re ready. You’re finally ready. You’d just as much like to tell her the truth without the paralysing fear that it’d result in losing her again. You can’t decide on either – the truth or the lie – and Emily’s eyes are already brimming with tears, so you settle on telling her the only thing that you know for certain. The thing you’ve known for what feels like your entire life.

“I want _you_ , Em.” You reach for her fidgeting hands though she begins to cry anyway. “I haven’t sorted out the rest just yet, but I want you more than anything.” When you lift a hand to cup her cheek, smoothing away the tears with a brush of your thumb, she closes her eyes. And then you ask for what you hope, more than anything, will be enough this time. “Can that be okay? For now?”

**

It’s a bit disorienting at first, waking up on Emily’s sofa in the dead of night. Not only because you don’t recall having fallen asleep, but also because you wake to Katie covering you and her sleeping sister with a blanket, a gesture so affectionate you almost start crying again, unexpectedly.

Katie’s lips turn up when she sees you’ve woken – somewhere between a smirk and a smile – before she mouths, _‘Just stay.’_

It’s an unsettling feeling, something that keeps you awake long after she’s gone to the spare bedroom and left you and Emily in the dark. Because you can’t help thinking that Katie Fitch has managed to reduce the whole of your life’s problems into a simple, two-word command.

**

Emily wakes before you, but only by seconds. Her mild shifting and quiet, morning sounds a pleasant way to wake up. Even if you’ve been cramped on a small sofa for hours. Even if there’s a bit of soured morning breath passing between you. It’s not always like this, you remember. You’ll not always find such things lovely – the way she steals blankets while she sleeps, or how she snores after drinking too much cider.

But, it’s nice for now, that you can come back to a place where even the unpleasant notes of being with someone just _aren’t_ unpleasant at all. The sun’s not come up fully, leaving Emily’s flat still shadowed in greys, leaving your body heavy with sleep. It must be early, though you can’t remember the last time you’ve checked a clock, your mobile tucked away somewhere, forgotten.

So you rub sleep from your eyes and ask her, “What time is it, do you think?”

Emily moves again, pulls her arm that’s been tucked between you so that she can see her wristwatch, and you shift accordingly. “Fairly early. It’s not yet six,” she says. And you’re laid face-to-face now, the space between you slight, and warm, and replete with things unsaid.

You’re murmuring _‘I should probably go’_ just as Emily says _‘Merry Christmas,’_ and it’s an awkward jumble of words that results in nervous laughter. Which then dissolves into embarrassed smiles, fleeting eye contact, your teeth finding your bottom lip, as per, and then Emily just _watching_. And you think, in spite of everything, or maybe _because of_ everything, at least one of you should be able to remember that you’re no longer sixteen, that you’re no longer meant to be so full of fucking whimsy. But it’s Christmas morning, and you’re snuggled with Emily beneath a quilted blanket, and something about that just feels like an excuse.

“Do you have time for a coffee before you go?”

Emily’s hand is so warm, her fingers so relaxed when you thread them together with your own. And she smiles into it, the kiss, practically sighing as your lips touch.

“I have some time,” you tell her. And then kiss her again.

It’s meant to end there. A kind of simple, morning gesture without ulterior motive. Though Emily’s hands are no more well-behaved than they had been in New York; and your restraint is just as shit as it’s always been with her. So, while awkward exchanges had felt reminiscent of your former selves, it’s nothing near as familiar as snogging on a couch, under a blanket, and trying to keep quiet. You’re out-of-practice, the both of you, at doing just that, and so it’s not long before Emily moans too loudly, shattering the quiet of the room, and you suddenly remember.

“Shit. Katie.”

Emily’s dazed for a beat, hovering above you, then kisses the flushed skin of your neck and smirks, “Wrong twin.”

“No,” you manage, your breathing still uneven and laboured, Emily’s mouth against your neck doing fuck-all to help. “I mean, she’s here. She came home late last night.”

Emily pulls back finally, looking at you with an expression you think is meant to be suggestive but seems more apprehensive than anything. “Oh. Um, bedroom then?”

It’s not as if you hadn’t expected this sort of thing to happen, because it’s _Emily_ after all. And you’re almost used to it again, that raw desire that springs up whenever you’re in her company. But then you think about not having that, not having her within arm’s reach, and it’s what stops you from giving into it. Though it’s a bloody miracle you’re able to deny her anything at this point, because Emily’s leg is trapped between your own. Her thigh pressed to you, creating a kind of pressure that still makes it hard to speak coherently.  

“I really should, um, be – be off, actually.”

Emily’s face doesn’t fall so much as it neutralises completely before she lets her head drop, nodding a few times while you fight the urge to change your mind.

It’s rather shit for the next several seconds until you tell her, “I have something for you – a sort of Christmas present.”

She’s smiling again when she looks back up, and you can’t help thinking how much simpler things would be if the solution to everything was as easy as Emily’s smile.

**

You bring your coffees back to the couch, and then try to work the disappointment off your face when Emily leaves a much bigger gap between you than you’d prefer, taking a seat at the opposite end. Though, you’ve basically just thwarted her proposition for Christmas-morning sex, so you try to be thankful she’s at least still sharing the same piece of furniture.

Even though Emily’s put the tree back on – twinkling now in white fairy lights – you’re both keeping quiet since it’s so early. And if you remember anything distinctive about living with Katie Fitch, it’s that she’ll nick your Diet Coke’s, yes, but more pertinently that she’s a fucking _terror_ if woken unexpectedly.

“Are you going to let me open it then, or is this just another tease?” Emily says, eyeing the wrapped gift in your lap before arching an eyebrow and smirking into her first sip of coffee.

Your retort is more like a stuttered laugh, and you can’t let Emily think she’s won [even though she always, _always_ does] so you look away until you think most of the burn is gone from your cheeks and ears.

“It warrants some explanation first,” you say, and that erases most of the smirk she’s been wearing.

“Alright.” Emily says the word slowly, drawn out as she moves to place her cup on the coffee table.

Clearing your throat, you start in, trying not to stumble over your words since clarity is essential if you’re to explain yourself properly. If you’re to have success in this at all.

“When I first got out of uni I went back to work for the non-profit where I’d interned the year before. Didn’t want to – work for them, I mean – since my only real plan after graduation was to, you know, become extraordinarily wealthy creating studio art.”

You can tell you’ve got her attention now because you’ve not ever done this – spoken to each other about that mysterious time apart. And it’s striking, really, just how much unknown there still is lingering between you, despite how much has transpired in recent months. It’s almost a relief, knowing you’re about to do the right thing. It’ll make all those years of trial and error worth it, you think, if you can just get this one thing right.

“Well, anyway, still waiting on that plan to formulate,” you say with a sigh and a timid smile, which Emily returns. “Since I wasn’t making art, or at least not profiting from it, I learnt how to care for it. Packaging it is almost an art form in itself, actually. I’d done some in uni, taken classes that sort of thing, but I really took to it for the first few years after graduation. Art crating, it’s called.” Emily nods while you sip your coffee. And then, feeling a bit self-conscious, you tell her, “Sorry, this is all just sort of boring backstory, but I think in light of some other stuff, it seemed like something you might like to know.”

She inches a bit closer, places a hand onto your shin then slides it around to give your calf a soft squeeze. And then says in that low, morning rasp that grates pleasantly along the back of your neck, “For the record, I’d like to know everything.”

Any lingering self-doubt then dissolves into nothing.

“Yeah,” you say, returning her smile. “Yeah, me too.”

“So,” she reaches again for her coffee. “Art crating.”

“Right.” You clear your throat, and Emily’s hand just lingers somewhere below your kneecap. “The draw was never really the crating, actually. Or it was initially, but, in the end, it was more the travel that I loved, I think. I would accompany all these exhibits, help in the unpacking of the art prior to installation, and then return to crate it afterwards. And, I mean, it wasn’t glamorous. Working for the non-profit, we didn’t travel luxuriously or anything. But we went all over – and it was nice, feeling sort of detached for a while, you know?”

Emily nods again, though it’s a bit more hesitant. A bit more subdued when she says, “Sure.”

You look down to your lap where your fingers have started to fiddle the corner of her gift. “I’ve asked my boss to approve my taking a similar position when I return to New York after the holidays.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I’ll be training and supervising, working more closely with the venue curators and such, instead of doing the actual crating, but it’d mean a great deal of travel. And, I think it’s what I need right now.”

“To feel detached?” Emily asks.

“Sort of.” She looks far too hurt for what you meant to imply, so you press on quickly. “I mean, I think I’d like to be away from New York for a bit.”

“Okay.” Her hand has stilled on your leg, and you wonder if it’s started to perspire as much as your own. “Can I ask why?”   

You exhale just once, through your nose, pinch your lips together, feeling them contort into an almost smile. “In part, to see how I might feel about being away from it more permanently.”

Emily says, “Oh,” and then breathes in suddenly before audibly realising, “ _Oh_.”

“It’s also become bloody _impossible_ to sort my head there.” In some mock irritation, you tell her, “You know, for someone who spent less than thirty-six hours there, you certainly know how to leave your fucking mark.”

She laughs then, lays her head against the back cushions and says, “Yes, well, I’ve been told.”

“But really, Ems, you know I’m serious, yeah? I meant what I said about taking some time to figure this out.”

Emily takes a heavy sigh, nods again.

“And, I don’t just mean by myself. I want you to help in that. This isn’t something I can do on my own. Which, is why I got you this.”

You feel almost silly then, having orated this lengthy speech all for a gift that hardly seems worthy of it. But Emily looks utterly pleased when she pulls back the paper.

Before she can ask, you explain to her, “I’d really like it if you’d write me.”

“Write you?” Emily opens the box of paper stock, letting her fingers graze the texture. “About what?”

“Well, everything – or anything, really. Tell me about your life here. Tell me about graduating university. Tell me how you ended up in London.”

“You really want me to tell you about—“ Her eyes are saying _'Lewis.'_ They're timidly asking _'Even Rose?'_

And so you nod with confidence. “ _Everything_.” You reach out for her hand, which she gives you.

“Okay. And what about you?”

“I’m excellent at correspondence, I’ll have you know,” you say, proudly tilting your chin upwards. “Just ask my mum.”

“I mean, if there are things I want to know?”

“Just ask. Though, I can’t promise my letters will hold the same writing calibre of an English professor.”

Emily laughs and begins rubbing her thumb along the back of your hand. She looks again at the stationary before asking quietly, “How long?” When she looks back up, you hold your breath, involuntarily. “How long will you travel?”

“Not sure, really. I’ll likely have a better idea of it once I get back in the offices.”

“Well, I’m really excited for you. It sounds – it sounds like a great opportunity.”

Emily couldn’t look _less_ excited if she’d just found out she’d be sharing a bed with Katie over the holidays at their Nan’s farm in Perthshire. [An expression of which you’re quite familiar, actually.]

But you tell her _‘thanks’_ anyway. Because somewhere, beneath the layers of impatience and disappointment, you think she probably means it.

“So, this is the plan?”

“Yeah, I guess this is the plan,” you squeeze once to Emily’s fingers. “I’ll work and travel, and you’ll continue your life as it is here, but we can keep each other a part of those lives. We’ll talk and write and – whatever happens, happens.”

Emily scoffs, rolling her eyes. “That’s not terribly reassuring, Naomi.”

“I’m sorry, Ems, but I honestly _don’t_ know. Not any more than you do.”

“You still have your reservations.” Her voice is quieter, her eyes cast down.

Your reservations could fill entire, fucking libraries. But, it's not what matters. Not now and maybe not ever.

And so you tell her, "There's always going to be some element of uncertainty, Em. That's just life, isn't it? But if I'm sure of anything, it's wanting you. I'm as sure of it now as I was when I was far more lanky, and political, and  _blonde_." She looks back to you then, her mouth threatening to turn upwards. "I'm just unsure of how to keep you, without also losing ... me."

It's not an unfamiliar dilemma. And you suddenly feel terribly homesick for a hot cup of tea and the gentle lilt of your mum's sage advice.

“I should wake Katie,” Emily then says dully. “We’ve got to catch our train to Bristol, and I’ve not even packed.”

Emily starts to move from the sofa, but you keep hold of her hand when saying, “Hey.” You have to tug only lightly before she’s sitting again and this time, thankfully, much closer. “We can do this, can’t we?”

She looks a little less deflated when she turns to meet your eye. “Yeah, of course we can. It’s just hard, Naomi. Feeling like we’ve wasted so much time as it is – and then trying to fathom any more time apart.” She shrugs loosely, her shoulders a bit slumped when they fall. “It’s just hard.”

“I know but, I want to do the right thing, Em. And that’s not always easy, yeah?”

Emily smiles, a kind of sad smile that is no less lovely. “Yeah.”

“Besides, it’s not Manchester this time, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“In New York you said, this doesn’t have to be Manchester, and I think you’re right. This has got to be different.” Emily nods, and so you continue with some lighter fare. “For one, we’re adults now, and we should probably try to remember that, you know, from time-to-time.”

Emily hums in agreement, leans back into you and rests her head onto your chest.

“Still can’t quite believe I showed up like that in the middle of term – what a fucking nutter.”

Her laughter settles into a long, contented sigh when she’s wrapped both arms around your waist. “Was a fun day though, that,” she says and leans up to kiss your ear.

It’s your turn to hum a response, though it comes out like a moan more so than you’d intended, which Emily takes as encouragement to continue kissing her way down to your collarbone. Your hands tense around a blanket and sofa cushion when Emily’s head dips a bit lower, her hands sliding beneath the hem of your jumper. The only thing you should be saying is, _‘I’ve got to go.’_

But, because your rationality has all but vanished, and has never quite worked properly where Emily is concerned anyway, you whisper something like, _‘Shit,’_ because Emily’s hands are just, well, _Emily’s hands_.

“Come on,” she then says, standing and pulling you up with her in one, fluid movement.

Your protest, weak and pathetic, does nothing to stop her. “No, Em—“

“Naomi.” She’s amused as well as determined, and it’s not at all fair the way those two things play across her face. “You’re about to fuck off for an indeterminate length of time, it’s Christmas morning, and I’m taking you to my fucking bedroom.” She stops midway down the corridor to reach up and kiss away your stunned expression. And then pulls again where your hands are still joined, saying through a cheeky smirk, “We can be adults tomorrow.” 


End file.
